A House in Naples. Peter Rabe
friend!”
“I know how it is, big shot. They sponge on you while you’re good for it and—”
“Naw. My friends is loaded. They don’t sponge.”
Charley waited.
“Know how I lost my dough, buddy?”
“At the tables.”
“The tables! You couldn’t lose that much dough at the tables! In the Crash, boy, in the big Crash!”
That was a long time ago. So must have been Delmont’s friends. He lost his dough in the Crash, sold his place on Ischia, stuck around, drifted, ended up the way he was now. Maybe he still had an income, some rich aunt back in the States. . .
“Made it all myself, boy. Every cent! I was made for that market, boy. When I hit New York from down New Hampshire way, I started running circles around that market. I—”
“That’s enough,” said Charley, but this time he let the man have the bottle. He hadn’t had any friends since ’29.
“And now number four,” said Charley and then he waited a minute because his head was going like mad. There was a head inside a head and they went in opposite directions.
“You don’t look healthy,” said the drunk. “Maybe you think I stink or something.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you’re laughing up your sleeve and calling me a liar, you sonofabitch.”
Charley hardly caught the tone of his voice so he just said, “Yeah,” and held his head.
When the drunk was all over him with vicious kicks and nails clawing it would have been easy to make him stop. But the drunk might pass out. He might go cold and never answer number four. Charley pushed him off like he was saving the guy. Then the drunk stopped. He was panting in the middle of the room, wanting to fight— better yet, wanting to do some big damage.
“What did you call me, buddy?”
“I called you a liar.”
“You? Calling me?”
“That’s right,” said Charley and he tried to think hard how to get to the point. “Because you can’t prove a thing,” he said finally. “All night you’re gassing at me, about Egypt and Amir, about landing here without passport, about being Italian and U.S.A. all at the same time—”
Charley waited. One thing about drunks, they always haul out the billfold and prove everything with papers. They haul out a library card to prove they can read. They haul out a baby picture to show they can make babies. And when really pressed they come up with their Mason’s card where it says Smith or something to prove they are Smith or something.
“Okay,” said Delmont, and he felt he had landed a sucker.
He got the suitcase and opened it. He looked at Charley over his shoulder. “Stand back, buddy. You’re peeping.”
When he turned back to the suitcase and pulled out underwear, someone in the next room gave a low laugh.
“What you say, tourist?” And the drunk spun around.
But Charley just stood there looking blank. His hands had started to tremble but he kept his face blank. And then the laugh again, from the next room.
“Out of my way!” the drunk said, and charged to the door. Charley saw how he threw it open and heard the crack when he tore into the next room. Then Charley didn’t listen any more. He turned to the suitcase.
First there was more underwear. There was a revolver in one of the socks and there was an unfinished letter.
And an Italian passport.
It was dog-eared and ancient. It had expired in 1938 and the picture in it was Delmont all right, looking meaner because there was muscle in his face and looking flashy as a matinee idol, with mustache, hair on the head, and a flower in the pinstriped suit. Delmont had changed from bastard to bum.
There was a sheet folded along old and worn creases and it said: Monarchy of Italy . . . hereby grants . . . to Richard Delmont, Citizenship of the Sovereign State of Italy. And some other details.
There was an old ration card, dated 1944.
There was a driver’s license.
A war registration, showing Delmont unfit.
Then the scream.
It brought Charley back, and all the noise from next door made awesome sense. “I got my buddy next door!” Delmont was screaming, “and once I call the cops we give testimony! I bet when your wife hears . . .”
Charley moved fast. The drunk would scream enough to stir up the whole house, and the larger the audience the sooner the carabinièri.
The girl was on the bed holding a sheet in front of her and the man stood there naked and didn’t care how it looked. He took a short step toward Delmont and talked low. Just the voice alone should have scared Delmont.
“The carabinièri!” yelled the drunk. “You aren’t married, you raping bastard, and the kid’s no more than twelve if she’s a day!”
Before Charley was halfway into the room Delmont reached for the sheet and tore it away from the girl.
There wasn’t a chance to get a good look at her. The man jumped at Delmont like a snake striking prey. Let the bastard get killed, Charley thought. He was out in the corridor again when he froze. Maybe it was the gasp from the girl, or the wet sound out of Delmont’s throat, but he turned and saw the man pull the knife out, and the drunk sank to the floor seeping blood.
He had to know. Charley came back and knelt next to Delmont, shaking him to find if he were still alive. The man had his pants on, and he slapped the girl’s face to make her move. He got her up, threw a coat over her shoulders, and pushed her toward the door. He stopped with his shirt half on, grabbed the girl’s arm with one hand and with the other one pointed the knife toward Charley. He held it steady.
“It was you,” said the man. “Look at him, Rosa.” He shook the girl. “It was this one!”
“It was this one,” she said, and the man tossed the knife across the drunk’s belly. It landed right next to his hand but he couldn’t use it. The drunk was dead.
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